


Pie Anxiety

by jouissant



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Crack, Food Porn, M/M, Pie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-20 08:01:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2421188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jouissant/pseuds/jouissant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris discovers the therapeutic benefits of baking and gains a sense of balance. Zach gains a couple pounds, and possibly loses his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pie Anxiety

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this prompt on the Pinto Kink Meme:
> 
> "Chris (not so?) secretly goes to pie therapy classes, which lead him to a blueberry balanced life. Maybe Zach receives surprise overnight shipments of freshly baked pie. Pie baking pies too meta?" 
> 
> In summary, NOT TOO META. NOT AT ALL.
> 
> [HERE](http://www.kcrw.com/news-culture/shows/good-food/pie-anxiety-banh-mi-at-home-indian-sweets) is the podcast that describes the concept of Pie Therapy, in case you're interested.

When Chris first saw the class advertised, he thought it was the hokiest thing he’d ever heard of. If ever something screamed unhinged Laurel Canyon hippie, pie therapy was it. But the food blog running the ad had always struck Chris as pretty down-to-earth. The woman running the class, Clemence, had degrees in psychotherapy from UCLA and pastry arts from Le Cordon Bleu, and if Chris was anything he was a hopeless academic snob. The point was, the credentials checked out, and the pies looked mouthwatering. If nothing else, Chris reasoned, he’d get some new skills out of the deal and would absolutely fucking own family Thanksgiving until the end of time. And if he managed to get himself a little more centered along the way, so much the better. 

So one evening, armed with a little whiskey-flavored tumbler of Dutch courage, he signed up. Which was how he found himself be-aproned and covered in flour one Saturday morning, in the company of several hipster homemakers, a brain surgeon, two lawyers, a couple of food bloggers, and a trio of very tense looking studio execs who studiously tried not to recognize him. They were all probably varying shades of crazy, and they were all very serious about pie. 

“I can’t get the crust to look right,” the surgeon said. “It’s all…lumpy.” 

“Clemence says it’s not lumpy,” Chris said. “It’s rustic.” 

The surgeon sighed. Chris felt bad for him. He privately thought the surgeon’s pie had gone straight past rustic to ass-ugly, but according to Clemence that manner of thinking was not in the spirit of pie therapy, which was supposed to be open and accepting of all pies, rustic or no. 

Back at home, Chris found himself struggling to apply the concepts outside of the classroom. His first pie had been pretty darn attractive, if he said so himself. And it had tasted fine. Good, even. But there had been something missing. In class, they’d prepared a basic apple, and Chris had spent a very long time dicing the fruit just so until Clemence, on patrol around the kitchen classroom, had grabbed his wrist and looked him in the eye and told him to loosen up his shoulders, that it would make the apples taste brighter. Chris wasn’t sure what exactly that meant, but the knots of tension he was developing from hunching over his knife began to dissolve. And again, the pie had tasted good. But as Chris sampled it, rewarmed in the microwave and crowned with a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream, he frowned. 

Something was definitely missing. 

Now, Chris stares at the lump of dough before him, trying to recall Clemence’s words. 

_Let the dough speak to you. Let it tell you what it wants to be. Try to let go of your preconceived notions, and let the pie be what it will._

He takes a deep breath, filling up his lungs all the way, letting the air out in a big, satisfying _whoosh_. 

“I am a disciple of this pie,” he says, taking up his rolling pin. As he works the dough, he lets his mind wander. 

Let the pie be what it will.

***

“Mr. Quinto?”

“Hey, what’s up, Ron?” Zach disentangles himself from the labyrinth of dog leashes he’s struggling with and goes over to the front desk. Ron, the door guy, comes out from around the side of his desk. He’s holding a flat, squarish package. 

“Fedex dropped this off for you,” Ron says. “Overnight. I figured I’d better make sure you got it.” He gestures to the box, where someone’s scrawled PERISHABLE in Sharpie over what seems like every conceivable inch of surface area. 

“I think it might be perishable,” Ron deadpans. 

“Um, yeah,” Zach says. He transfers the leashes to his right hand and takes the box, cradling it against his chest. “Hey, thanks, Ron.” 

Back in the apartment, Zach frees the dogs and sets the package on the kitchen counter. He wonders idly if he should be concerned. But there’s something innocent about the package, and the Sharpie seems oddly familiar. So he shrugs, gets out a pair of kitchen scissors, and opens it. 

No sooner has he opened the box than a rich, buttery smell begins to fill the room. Zach’s mouth starts watering in a dependably Pavlovian manner. He tilts the package slightly, and as its contents slide out he finds himself holding his breath. There’s a bundle wrapped in wax paper, a white square of grease-stained notecard sitting on top. Zach removes the note and, distracted by the smell, peels back the wrapping carefully. 

Sitting on Zach’s countertop is a perfect blueberry pie, dark fruit peeking from beneath thick slats of golden-brown crust. “What the hell,” Zach mutters to himself. The dogs, obviously smelling something afoot, come padding into the kitchen to investigate. 

Before he quite knows what he’s doing, Zach is fetching a plate, knife, and fork. He should probably be a little more discerning about eating baked goods of unknown origin, but this pie smells and looks better than any other pie he can remember. He cuts himself a distinctly oversized wedge and transfers it to his plate. “Well,” he says to the dogs. “If somebody’s trying to poison me with this pie, it was nice knowing you. Try and eat my lower extremity first, okay? Mom’ll be upset if they can’t have an open casket.” 

He takes a deep breath and shovels in a mouthful. It’s…the most delicious thing Zach has ever put in his mouth. He actually goes weak at the knees and has to clutch at the countertop for support. 

“Oh my _god_ ,” he moans. 

He’s pretty sure he can taste like five sticks of butter just in this one bite, plus there’s a dusting of sugar on the topmost crust that lends just a hint of crunch. The berries are amazing, not saccharine and gummy jarred filling but actual, juicy berries. If he closes his eyes he’s pretty sure he can imagine eating a handful of them fresh off the bush in the Maine backwoods or something, and Zach’s never even been to Maine. He devours the slice in record time and is going in for round two when he remembers the note. He sets his plate down with no small measure of reluctance and flips the card open. The note is short. It reassures Zach that he’s probably not being murdered via mail-order pie, but it still leaves him with far more questions than answers. 

_Zach—Enjoy._

_—Chris_

Full of pie, Zach skips dinner, and manages to eat two more slices before he goes to bed. He eats another for breakfast the next morning, and because there’s only one slice left and it looks lonely he eats it for dessert after lunch. By rights, he should be sick of pie by now, and he’s definitely feeling a little bloated. He spends an extra half hour on the treadmill, and when he gets home from the gym he stares at the wadded wax paper in the trash a little sadly. 

Zach’s always known Chris liked to cook, but that pie had been a revelation. Zach should call him, he thinks. Say thanks. He even goes so far as to take up his phone and dial half of Chris’s number before thinking better of it. They haven’t talked in awhile, not since the summer, and they’ve always been the kind of people who can pick right back up where they left off, but that was before Zach started doing things like dating models and selling his house in L.A, both of which Chris gave a big thumbs-down according to the grapevine, though he’d only ever been kind and supportive to Zach’s face. Zach had begun to wonder if perhaps he’d finally done it, if he’d gone too far with Chris. He’d felt bad about it, uncertain enough to put off calling and put it off some more, until the weeks had turned into months and the months had turned into…pie. 

He should call about the pie. 

Maybe he’ll do it tomorrow. 

The next day, Zach’s headed to the elevator with an armful of mail when Ron calls after him. “Hey, Mr. Quinto,” he says. “Got some more perishables for you.” 

It’s another overnight, scrawled with the same Sharpied warnings in what Zach now recognizes as Chris’s slightly loopy-looking block print. A couple of the “PERISHABLES” are misspelled. 

“Thanks,” Zach says. He takes the stairs instead of the elevator. He has a feeling he’s going to need the exercise. 

This pie is lemon meringue. By some miracle, it survived its trip east in perfect form, topped with smooth white peaks and valleys. Zach’s picked up a salad from Whole Foods for dinner, but he can’t resist trying a slice right away, cutting into the pie to reveal a silky, sunny yellow custard that tastes like a fucking lemon grove exploded in his mouth. Lemon meringue is not Zach’s favorite kind of pie. In fact, before yesterday, he’d probably have called himself more of a cake man. But something about this pie is special, and once again, Zach eats it for dinner. His salad is relegated to the crisper drawer, mostly forgotten. Once again, Zach thinks about calling Chris, but he chickens out before he can finish dialing. And once again, the pie is there to greet him the next morning, this time for an early call. He shovels a slice in as he packs up the salad to eat for lunch, and he stares regretfully at the rapidly emptying tin. But as he steps out into the early autumn chill, he can’t help but feel a little warmer and cheerier than usual. 

After that, the pies arrive every other day, as if on schedule. Pumpkin and rhubarb, pecan and Boston cream, the latter a little worse for wear out of the box but no less tasty for it. And Zach’s definitely not above licking up stray chocolate frosting, so no harm no foul. The pies are all uniformly delicious, but Zach decides he’s got to start drawing the line somewhere, so he starts portioning them out to give away to friends and neighbors. He’s the most popular person in the makeup trailer when he arrives with his bounty every morning, and he honestly can’t fathom why pie and coffee weren’t always his own personal breakfast of champions. 

And every night, without fail, he finishes his pie nightcap and stares at his phone and wonders what it all means. Because sure, he hasn’t called Chris yet. But Chris has sent him six pies in twice as many days, and he’s never said a word. There hasn’t even been a note after the first one. The rationale behind the deluge of pies remains a mystery. 

And then…the pies stop. 

Zach stands over the front desk, drumming his fingertips in a staccato as he waits for Ron to check the package closet. 

“Sorry,” he says when he returns. “Nothing there for you.” 

Zach sighs. “Are you sure?” 

“Sorry.” 

“Okay,” Zach sighs again. “Thanks anyway.” 

He takes the elevator up to his floor and eats a perfectly sensible dinner. Afterwards, he opens the freezer and stares listlessly at a pint of ice cream that’s been in there so long he can’t remember when he bought it. He makes a disgusted noise and slams the door. He goes to bed early, and doesn’t bother with the phone routine. 

“Hey,” says his makeup artist the next morning. “Where’s the pie?” 

“Pie’s gone,” Zach says, taking a moody sip of coffee. He tells her that he’s hoping it’s just a lull, but privately he’s not feeling optimistic. He makes it three days before he buys a buttermilk pie from a very exclusive, very expensive bakery in Brooklyn. He has to get up ass early and schlep to an entirely different borough to get it before it sells out, so he figures the fucking pie is bound to deliver. It doesn’t, though. He forces down a slice on principle and shoves the rest in the fridge to languish behind a carton of milk and an economy sized bottle of ketchup dating from early 2012. 

It’s a waste of $30, but it’s only what a sub-par pie deserves. 

That night, Zach finally dials Chris’s number. It rings and rings and eventually goes to voicemail. Zach doesn’t leave a message, because he can’t think of anything to say and “Hi Chris, I got your pies,” while accurate, also doesn’t really feel like an option. He turns his phone off and goes to bed early again. He can’t sleep, though, just tosses and turns, thinking about Chris and what could possibly have possessed him to send Zach a bakery’s worth of transcendentally delicious pies, to reel him in hook, line, and sinker and then abandon him to a near-apocalyptic future of store-bought pie, or worse, Sara Lee from the freezer aisle. 

It just doesn’t bear thinking about. In the wee hours, wracked with insomnia and possibly driven mad by pastry, Zach checks his schedule and buys a plane ticket.

***

“There you go,” Chris says to a tray of peach tartlets as he eases them into the oven. “And there _you_ go,” he says to the oversized tarte Tatin he’s switching the tartlets out for. He sets it on the counter to cool, watching it as one might a much longed for child that has, miraculously, exceeded expectations.

 _This is it,_ Chris thinks. _This, right here, is it._

The doorbell rings, and Chris frowns. He’s definitely not expecting anyone, although Katie was going to swing by and pick up some of the tartlets later. Truth be told, Chris is getting a little sick of pie. He thinks he might branch out into savories for a little while. According to Clemence, the path to self-actualization is more of a cycle, anyway. The doorbell rings again, insistently. 

Chris is covered in flour and wearing a previously white t-shirt that’s now stained here and there with peach juice and chocolate. He’s also wearing an apron, but Chris learned long ago that he’s a complete disaster in the kitchen, so it’s really more of a gesture towards cleanliness than anything else.

“It’s all part of your journey,” Clemence told him. “Don’t let them stifle you.” Chris isn’t exactly sure who “them” refers to— his shirts, maybe. 

He opens the door gingerly, hoping he doesn’t freak out the UPS guy or whoever too badly. Except it’s not the UPS guy at all. It’s Zach. 

“Whoa,” Chris says. “What are you doing here?” 

Zach is staring at him like he’s just seen a ghost. Or, more accurately, like he’s a starving man and Chris is a giant hamburger. Or a giant piece of—

“Pie,” Zach says. 

“Um, hi yourself?” 

“No,” Zach says, pushing past Chris into the house. “Pie. It’s here. I can smell it.” 

“Yeah,” Chris says, shutting the door behind them. “That’s because I’m baking. And I have flour and butter and shit all over me.” Zach doesn’t seem to be listening, though; he just wanders through Chris’s living room into the kitchen. 

“Holy shit, Pine,” Zach says, looking around at the fruits of Chris’s labor. “What’s gotten into you?” 

“I dunno,” Chris says, shrugging. “I took a class. It’s kind of fun! And it’s super relaxing. You should try it sometime. You seem…you seem a little stressed.” Stressed is an understatement; Zach looks like hell. “Did you come straight from the airport?” 

Zach nods slowly, his eyes trained on the tarte Tatin. “You sent me pie,” he says. “Pie that you made.” 

Chris feels himself blush. He swipes a floury hand back through his hair. “Oh. Yeah. Um, I guess I did.” 

Zach wheels around then, one hand on the marble countertop like he needs it as a counterweight. “But _why?_ ” 

Chris shrugs again. “Do you want to sit down?” he asks. He pulls out a barstool and Zach collapses into it, resting his elbows on the counter. Chris goes over to a cabinet and grabs a glass, fills it with water and places the glass in front of Zach. Zach nods his thanks, then picks the glass up and drains it in one go. 

“Why?” Zach croaks again. 

“I…so this is kind of dumb,” he starts. “The class I took…it wasn’t just a baking class. It was supposed to be, like, therapy. We were supposed to be dealing with our issues through baking, or our issues _with_ baking, or both. Or whatever. But it was all about, like, being one with the ingredients and not freaking out if your pie was lumpy or burned or tasted gross or whatever.” 

Zach looks a little less peaky; he’s even got a look on his face that could be the beginnings of a smirk. “Go on.” 

“So I made this pie, right? It was apple. It looked pretty awesome. And it tasted okay. But it didn’t taste great.” 

“The pies you sent me tasted great,” Zach says accusatorially. 

“I’m getting there,” Chris says. “So anyway, after the class I started practicing. Clemence—that’s my pie guru lady—she says we’re supposed to let the pie tell us what it wants to be. So I started trying to be all, like, zen when I baked, and just think about nothing. But I couldn’t do it. So I thought that maybe I could just let my mind kind of wander, and think of nice things while I made the pies, and maybe that would help.” 

Zach swallows. “And did it?” 

Chris licks his lips. “Well, yeah.” 

“What…what did you think about? While you were baking.” 

“Uh,” Chris says. He takes a deep breath. _Pie therapy is not about obfuscation_ , he thinks. “I thought about you.” 

Zach looks up at him. He looks confused. “But why?” 

“Because I like you,” Chris says. “I like you a lot. I maybe even—well. I just…I decided to think about nice things, and my thoughts just _happened_ to turn to you. And then the pies just started…turning out.” 

Zach still looks confused. He runs a finger through the condensation on his water glass, and avoids looking Chris in the eye. “But why send them to me?” 

“Seemed only fair,” he says. Truth be told, he’s not really sure what made him start baking pies for Zach instead of just…about him. It had just seemed to make sense at the time.

Zach’s hand falls away from the water glass. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you or your damn pie for almost two weeks.” 

“Me?” Chris asks. “Or the pie? Because that seems like kind of an important distinction.” 

“You stopped,” Zach says, not bothering to answer the question.

“You never called or anything,” Chris says. “I didn’t even know if you were getting them.” And sure, he could have called to check, or gotten delivery notifications or something. But it had seemed more fitting to just send the pies out into the wild and let them do what they would. 

They sit in silence for what seems like a long time, Chris contemplating his countertop, the snowdrifts of flour, a cup of sifted confectioner’s sugar waiting to become a glaze for the peach tartlets. “You look hungry,” Chris says hesitantly. 

“Mmm,” Zach says without looking up. 

“Do you…want some pie?” 

Zach raises his head groggily and nods. 

Chris sighs. He turns back to the cabinet and retrieves a turquoise ceramic plate. It’s thick and heavy, handmade, and it matches a mug that used to be Zach’s favorite coffee receptacle, back when he had occasion to drink coffee at Chris’s on a regular basis. Chris wonders if he remembers. He sets the plate down on the counter and picks up a pie server. Then, methodically, he cuts a generous slice of the tart. 

“That’s not a pie,” Zach says. 

“Not technically. Now, shh.” He opens the fridge and takes out a bowl, spooning fresh whipping cream alongside the slice. “I have no idea how the French serve this,” he says. “But I also don’t really care that much.” He gets a fork out of the drawer and brings the plate around the counter to place in front of Zach. But Zach seems incapable of anything but staring, so finally Chris takes pity on him and sinks the fork in himself. He makes sure it’s the perfect bite: not too big, not too small; plenty of buttery caramelized apple and delicate crust and whipped cream.

“Here,” he says. “Just—“ He raises the fork to Zach’s lips. Zach opens dutifully, and Chris can’t help but hold his breath as he offers the bite. Zach’s eyes flutter closed. 

There’s a fleck of whipped cream on Zach’s lower lip, and as Chris moves to wipe it away with his thumb Zach attempts to do the same with his tongue. Chris gasps and withdraws, and Zach’s eyes come open again. 

The sound he makes is fairly obscene, and Chris can’t help but smile. 

They stare at each other as Zach chews contemplatively, swallows. His eyes are huge in his face, and Chris imagines he can feel some of the obvious tension bleed out of him as he eats. He licks his lips. 

“More,” Zach says. 

“You want me to keep—“ 

_”Chris._ ” 

So Chris leans against the counter and feeds Zach the rest of the slice, bite by bite by bite. When the last bite has been consumed and only crumbs remain, Chris withdraws the fork one final time. Before he can put it on the counter, Zach reaches out and grabs his wrist, gently divests him of the fork and sets it down himself. He looks down at Chris’s hand and interlaces their fingers. 

“Thank you,” he says softly. “For the pies.” 

“You’re welcome,” Chris says. “Zach—“ 

But Zach’s launching forward, slipping off the chair heedlessly. Chris curses and moves against him to take his weight in a way that is, in practice, a lot like just gathering Zach up in his arms. Zach laughs, and Chris opens his mouth to say _Zach, what the hell_ but then Zach is right there, and he smells like sweetness and apples, and he tastes exactly like the best pie Chris never made.

They kiss until the oven chimes, and then they kiss some more. The tartlets are a little overdone, but neither of them cares.


End file.
